


There is a man under the tree

by Jazz_intown



Series: And when the sky's falling apart, who will hold my hand? [3]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Ghostbur, music 'n grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazz_intown/pseuds/Jazz_intown
Summary: There is a man sitting under the tree and playing his guitar. Why is he there, you wonder, and why do you want to know? Not that you know much anyways.
Series: And when the sky's falling apart, who will hold my hand? [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122893
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	There is a man under the tree

There is a man sitting under the tree. 

It is afternoon, the world is golden and the skies are blue. Wind whistles like a sister's lullaby trough untamed grass. A river sings his song of joyful water and childish laughter somewhere; birds share their stories of long journeys with soft chirps. The air tastes like honey. It spreads on your tongue like sweet, sweet flowers. 

There is a man sitting under the tree. 

Well, he _isn't_ exactly. He is not, because he is not really there. The dark bork is shimmering trough him, the sun letting her glances dance across him as if he was just as light as the clouds high above. He is wearing a sweater and glasses, never something else. It's not as if you see him on another spot ever, either. He stays. Stays here, stays not because one can't stay if one isn't really there. 

There is music coming from underneath the tree. 

You don't see the man often, but when you do he plays a guitar. His unruly hair hides his eyes so it looks as if he was plugging the strings blindly, fingers dancing across the board like waves in a riverbed. It's a sad sound; tells about tales of broken lands and crushed dreams and dying hopes. Forgotten friendships. It's a sweet tune; sighs about stories of longing freedom and colored journeys and soft love. He also sings, you think, but you can never make out the words. It's as if the wind carries his voice away before it can be heard. How could someone be heard if they are not even really there? 

There is a grave under the tree. 

It's small and innocent looking. There is nothing written on it, nothing but a name, Wilbur. You wonder if the man, Wilbur, is the man sitting there, not being there. If he was Wilbur. If he still is...? No, he can't be, because he is not really, not really here... Your head begins spinning thinking so you stop.  
The grave is not visited by many people, you noticed. Once a week there is a girl coming, her face always solemn and sad. She puts flowers down but never talks. Her presence feels like the sun; warm and comforting and protecting. Maybe she is the reason why the air tastes like summer.  
Then there is a boy - well, he looks like a boy, but you can feel he is carrying a heavy burden on his frail shoulders. His eyes are smart and quiet and loving; he visits once a month. Every time he sits next to the grave, burying his hands in the pockets of his suit which is looking way too formal. He mostly stays silent as well, but sometimes he whispers. Asks questions you can't hear. Waits for advice that doesn't come. You wonder why he is waiting for help from a ghost who doesn't seem to be able to do much more than playing guitar.  
Then there is a whole family, you think. A man with wings as large as a night's cloud, another man you can feel death following him, not threatening him but his victims, and another boy, as young as the one in the suit. They never come together. They never seem to have a certain time for visiting. The winged man likes to stroke the stone a bit, breathing in regret and smiling in memories. The ghost usually stops playing around him. The death god, as you decided calling him, doesn't show any emotion on his face, but he always takes of his crown and that seems as a sign of respect, you think. Maybe even mourning. To bring the death to mourn... That's not something everyone can do. You wonder how powerful that Wilbur was and why he is no longer.  
The boy - he seems to hold the whole family's emotion in his slender body. He mostly talks and then screams at the cold stone and then cries and then goes numb. Sometimes he even sleeps here. As if he was waiting for a response he would never get. You pity him. He is a child, but you can see the shadows of war lingering in his skyblue eyes and you feel the burning of his scars if you look at them, so you consider him a bit of a man. Sometimes life does that to boys. 

The other two people who come to visit seem to share a connection you can't quite place. One of them, a hybrid with fox ears, always seems angry and bitter and helpless, fists clenched, tail wiping around. The other one, voice deep as the moon's light, never tries to calm him; they only stares at the stone with something twirling in their eyes. Like a rose that once died and never fully recovered, a cloud in his thoughts. Betrayel. They speak a lot, share memories and laughter, sometimes tears, but you never listen to those. It's not your business. You don't want to involve. (As if you wouldn't already do that by watching everyone visiting a grave.)

There is a story under the tree. 

You don't know of it. You've been in this land now for a few months and every time you cross this strange quiet place you ask yourself what lead the ghost to sit there and never stop playing as if the world didn't exist. In the beginning he still had reacted to people; had carefully touched the girl's shoulder, had hummed hushed words to the boy in the suit, had looked at the winged man with forgiveness and at the death with memories in his eyes. The warscared child he had sung to sleep softly, strumming and watching with stars of love in his gaze, tugging the small one in the coat of his melodies. The fox he liked to pat on the head and say words of apologize; the one with the moon-voice he ignored. You always wondered why, until you couldn't wonder anymore because the ghost stopped moving. People passed and mourned and he didn't seem to see them, only strumming and strumming and humming.  
Most folks don't really like you and want to avoid you, almost as if they couldn't see you (it makes you a bit sad, since you don't know the reason), but you had a few chances to ask about that man at the grave. Why was he never seen anywhere else?, you had asked the girl, who was he?, and she had smiled softly and sad and said nothing, but after that you had found a cake at your place. Next to it a single piece of paper, a friend. Why is everyone so bitter about that grave?, you also asked the boy in the suit, who was he?, and he had stared at you as if you came from another world and then turned around, walking away, back to his responsibilities. You almost couldn't make out his quiet mutter he left hanging in the air. A leader. Why does he do nothing but sing?, you asked the winged man, who was he?, and he had laughed roughly and warm, a father's giggle, and he shook your hand firmly before blinking away tears of regret. A son. And as you asked the child, what happened to him? Who was he?, he just growled. His eyes burned with a blue fire and his fingers shook, chest burning and he shouted at you. He was a fucking maniac. Had blown up everything, including his own mind and life, his memories. His brother had lost it all and and you should stop bothering him before you regretted it, that's what he told you and so you did. 

You don't talk to the fox and to the death. Something about them makes you feel dizzy. 

There is a quiet night full of thinking under the tree. 

You look at the ghost sitting not far away, wondering how it all got to this point, because you didn't really understand the whole story. Only that he doesn't remember. Knowing that makes something hurt in your chest, like a little stone jumping up and down, and you ask yourself why suddenly your throat feels tight. You sigh and lean back. The sky is dark. The stars shine quietly. Twinkle, twinkle. You don't bring yourself to smile at that because your blood feels heavy with something that must be sadness. Sadness over what?  
You look at the ghost again, listening to his soft strumming and you start humming along. You know the melody but not the words. You know that he is many things - a friend, a leader, a son, a maniac, a brother, a musician but you know not of his story. You know of his name but not of his home. You know...

What do you know? 

You know not much. No one ever told you anything after you arrived here. You know... You know that stars are bright and that air tastes like honey and that time is like sand running through the hands of everyone but you and that water is a cool relief. You know to stay away from the death. You know your home is... 

Where is your home again? 

Confused you squeeze your eyes and count the leaves on the ground. Your mind is empty. You really don't know much, you realize... Everything you do know are facts you learned, not statements you feel. There's only two things that you know by heart, you think, and those things are as manifested into your being like that name on a gravestone. The air turns a little cool.  
Only two things to hold on, you see, as a smile hushes across your pale face because you suddenly seem to be hit with clearness and solemn understanding. 

You don't know where your home is.

You don't know what you have done. 

You don't know how all of them are called. 

But...

You know that your name used to be Schlatt. 

And you know that Wilbur Soot once was someone you loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
